
(Baker)
In which he was able to stop (Gill Lambert)
When all this is over, said the baker,
I will write a note in flour dust,
poke my name and back in 5 minutes.
I will pull up the blinds to the afternoon;
let the sun melt macaroons and French fancies.
..
I will put down a carpet, I’m tired
of hardness, I want something with more – give.
I’ll run a bath and sink to the chin,
lie for hours, let the cold out, more hot in.
I’ll go to bed late, wake at dinner.
…
When all this is over I’ll buy cheap white
from the corner shop, take out two slices,
slather on butter, fill them with crisps.
I’ll press them, thin as paper between my palms,
just so I know what I might have missed.
..
Balloonist (Su Ryder)
When this is all over, said the balloonist,
I will bring my basket back over Burnsall Bridge,
causing a raucous scatter of rooks and mallards,
ducking through ancient trees and modern hazards.
…
Runners will chase my shadow, my full-bellied ghost,
as it wheezes and roars overhead, buffering through
fleeced flocks of scattering clouds in pastures of blue,
their shadows racing the sunlight roaming the fell.
..
Then rusty weekend campers from Appletreewick,
and hikers, booted in blisters, too long off their feet,
will cluster outside the Red Lion, that first siren thrill
of real ale loosening anecdotes too long left dry.
..
And I’ll bump my basket down through bracken and gorse,
the tang of horse and Friesian, and Swaledale sheep,
my envelope like a stray rainbow settling to earth,
buoyed by belief and helium-high on hope.
…
The next poem broke all the rules, or simply ignored them. But it made me laugh, which more than you can say for the daily news..
………
Bingo Caller Blues (Val Bowen)
Rise and shine, a cup of tea
For you and me at Torquay in Heaven
Berlington Bertie and Dirty Gertie
Nearing the top of the shop
We’re staying in……….. distancing
on Doctor’s Orders , staying alive,
out of Boris’s Den, almost retired
should be feeling Zen.
..
But me? I’m only halfway there
I got the bingo caller blues
Can’t call it out.
My numbers not up
and there’s no full house.
Can’t exercise my right
to rhyme every night
I got the bingo caller A-Z
1 to 90 blues
…
My Queen Bee, she loves to stay indoors
counts 39 more steps In her droopy drawers.
Then makes another Christmas cake
She’s tickety boo, not in a state
baking brownies in the oven by the triple dozen
..
But me ? I’m only halfway there
I got the bingo caller blues
Can’t call it out
My numbers not up
and there’s no full house
Can’t exercise my right
To rhyme every night
I got the bingo caller A-Z
1 to 90 blues
..
Every now and then we hear the garden gate
We’re not suffering a Ghandi’s Breakfast fate
A knock at the door bringing Chicken Vindaloo.,
It’s time for tea, anyway up,
meal for Two, a favourite of mine,
Grandma’s getting frisky, she’s so damn fine
..
But me? I’m only halfway there
I got the bingo caller blues
Can’t call it out
My numbers not up
and there’s no full house.
Can’t exercise my right
to rhyme every night
I got the bingo caller A-Z
1 to 90 blues
..
I’m feeling two and six
need to get up to tricks
take the key of the door
think young and keen.
There’s one score in me yet
I’m not a has been
and it’s a bull’s eye!
I’ve still got it @Danny La Rue.
I’ll use my legs eleven
on the stairway to Heaven
To buckle my shoe
to get up and run
have some duck and dive fun
..
Jogging along, this Kelly’s Eye
Shouting out my numbers at passers by
On the sunset strip along the Brighton Line
It soothes my soul, don’t ask me why
Then unlucky for some just as I’m feeling fine
Here comes Herbie with his sirens on
I get arrested waiting in the queue
For Fish Chips and peas
– For shouting “ TWO FAT LADIES
– HIT THE FLOOR,
– DOWN ON YOU KNEES
…
That’s why, I got the bingo caller blues
Can’t call it out
My numbers not up
and there’s no full house
Can’t exercise my right
To rhyme every night
I got the binger caller A-Z
1 to 90 blues.
..
…
The Boulangére (Stella Wulf)
When the last embers die in the four,
and the door scrapes its final crescent over the floor,
I’ll watch the moon scythe through night’s prairie,
track the Milky Way’s dusted trail to the doorstep of morning.
…..
I will spoon with my man, shape his flesh until he yields to my need.
We will not rise until the sun sinks into earth’s golden crust.
Day and night will roll into one like a heavenly pain au raisin.
I will grow fat on the sweetness of it.
..
There are those who like to bake on a beach in the Med.
A run-of-the-mill type, I have little appetite for the exotic,
I’ll bare my head to a fall of snow, let it lie on my shoulders
like grist, or the dander of my dead self.
..
I will dress in red, take up calligraphy, dip my pen in the blackest ink,
swash through the bleached white space with a new vocabulary.
When I tire of that, I’ll sling a hammock between trees,
sway like a pale baguette, naked and wanton.
..
On weekdays I’ll lie on my back in a cornfield, hear
through its ears the scutter of mouse, feel in my bones the creation
of mole’s orogenies, until the sky breaks its monotony
with a brazen streak.
…….
I’ll go home to the warmth of a rekindled fire,
the homespun house toasty as a new baked loaf,
wine breathing soft in the carafe; proof of a man’s good love.
When the last embers die in the four, may it give us this day.
………
More tomorrow. With all sorts of possibilities…like carpenters, chauffeurs, chiropractors, cabinet makers, chemists, cleaners, cooks, chefs, chimneysweeps, clockmakers, chiromancers……….Who can say?
This is all fantastic – what a terrific idea of yours, Foggs. Days and days of this stuff to look forward to! xx
LikeLike